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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24756823">Ride the Wind</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/judithandronicus/pseuds/judithandronicus'>judithandronicus</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Accidental Cuddling, Bees, Castiel/Dean Winchester First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Humor, M/M, Overwhelmed Dean Winchester, POV Dean Winchester, Porn with Feelings, Profound Bond Gift Exchange: Quarantine &amp; Chill (Supernatural), Sharing a Bed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 06:01:17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,782</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24756823</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/judithandronicus/pseuds/judithandronicus</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>He shouldn’t have even bothered with this one. Seriously. Why the fuck didn’t he just call up Jody and let her and Claire handle it? They were closer. They could’ve taken out the goddamn rougarou and been back home before the shit hit the fan. Goddammit.</em>
</p><hr/><p>The one where Dean and Cas get quarantined in a motel for two weeks, and there is...<em>just one bed!</em><br/>Whatever shall they do?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Castiel/Dean Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>46</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>428</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>ProfoundBond Exchange: Quarantine &amp; Chill, The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Ride the Wind</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/canadduh/gifts">canadduh</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Fic title from Led Zeppelin, "Achilles Last Stand"</p><p>Once upon a time, a writer new to the SPN fandom signed up for a challenge, and on the eve of the posting window, threw out her original draft (which was stilted and awful) and began something else, the result of which you see here. For canadduh, I hope you like it. As far as where this fic lives in the context of the series? I’ve binged 10 seasons in the past month. So basically, this is a canon-adjacent sort of thing, where they live in the bunker, Jack doesn't exist yet, and Cas is an angel but needs to sleep. Just go with it?</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He shouldn’t have even bothered with this one. Seriously. Why the fuck didn’t he just call up Jody and let her and Claire handle it? They were closer. They could’ve taken out the goddamn rougarou and been back home before the shit hit the fan.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Goddammit.</em>
</p>
<hr/><p>“I’m sorry, Mr….Page,” the frazzled desk attendant shrugs, giving him what appears to be an apologetic smile behind her mask, before she turns her focus back to the computer. “But we’ve only got the one room left, and it’s a king. This whole quarantine mess has us booked solid for the next couple weeks.”</p><p>“Yeah, guess so.” Dean rubs the space above his eyebrows, trying to work the tension loose before it turns into a full-fledged headache. “We’ll take it, then.”</p><p>She slides the key across the counter, then collects what’s just come whirring out from the printer. “Okay, here’s your key—room 118, just pull around back—and information about the grocery delivery service options. And since you’ll need to stay isolated for the full two weeks, I’m afraid we won’t be able to offer housekeeping services, but just call the desk if you need fresh linens or towels.”</p><p>Dean stares down at the key as she talks, tries to focus on what she’s saying and not the mess of anxiety swirling inside his head, but it doesn’t work. Her words become jumbled, melting into one another until it’s like she’s quacking wordless syllables at him like the teacher in Charlie Brown.</p><p>Two weeks. It’s just two weeks. He’s been through worse; hell, he’s survived the pit itself. He can totally handle two weeks of quarantine in a shitty roadside motel.</p><p>He takes the key from the desk, and goes out to tell Cas what’s happening.</p><p>“I don’t see the problem, Dean.” Cas is doing that <em>thing</em>, and Dean hates it. Hates it so much because he <em>doesn’t </em>hate it; he <em>opposite</em> of hates it, how Cas will tilt his head to the side and narrow his eyes, looking at Dean like he’s trying to figure something out. Like Dean’s a math problem on a chalkboard that Cas needs to solve. Dean hates it because it makes him tingle, warms up icy parts deep inside him that he’s spent decades locking away. “We’ve shared smaller beds before when we’ve traveled with Sam. This is no different.”</p><p>Leave it to Cas to be all practical and shit. Dean takes a stuttery breath in, his tongue heavy in his throat as he swallows around it. Dean can be practical, too.</p><p>This is just like being on a hunt with Sammy, practically tripping over each other in the confines of various roadside motels, him and Cas always sharing a queen-sized bed because of how Sasquatch starfishes. His little brother is damned near physically incapable of sharing a bed.</p><p>This is just like that, Dean assures himself. No different than any other time they’ve shared a bed. Only this time, Sam’s not there, drooling into a pillow two feet away from them, his snores reverberating through the room an ever-present reminder to keep Little Dean in check.</p><p>
  <em>I can do this.</em>
</p>
<hr/><p>Dean Winchester does not cuddle.</p><p>They’re four days into their quarantine when it happens.</p><p>He’s still in that dreamy haze between sleep and waking, where reality is still blurred at the edges, the sharp lines of real world boundaries softened by the peace of his dream. Everything is warm, and Dean feels safe in a way that he’s never felt before.</p><p>A man could get used to this; the thought drifts through his waking mind, but the warmth of sleep pulls at him, and it’s not like they’ve got anywhere else to be, so he lets himself sink back into the dream. Where he’s wrapped up, safe and warm and content in the arms of his…</p><p>
  <em>Gurgle.</em>
</p><p>Stupid stomach. He can eat later.</p><p>Dean burrows back into his cozy cocoon, sighing as he snuggles back into the firm warmth beneath his face. He lets himself drop back toward the bliss of his dream, only vaguely aware of how the slight shift beneath him.</p><p>
  <em>Gurgle.</em>
</p><p>“Dean.”</p><p>He murmurs…something unintelligible in response to that firm, gravelly voice. Not quite words, it’s too early to make words happen, but <em>something. </em>Just a little longer like this, that’s all Dean needs. Just a little more.</p><p><em>Five more minutes, that’s all, Sammy. I’ll get up, I promise. </em>Maybe. Because now he feels that warmth traveling up and down his spine like a caress, and he doesn’t want to lose that. Not yet. Just a little more.</p><p>“Dean.”</p><p>There’s a firm pressure between his shoulder blades, and a hint of frustration in that familiar grumble.</p><p>“Yeah, Cas?” He mumbles, eyes still closed as he clings desperately to the remnants of that blissful sleep.</p><p>“Judging from the sounds your stomach is making, you need to eat.” Cas’ words jostle him, and suddenly Dean is wide awake and aware of himself. His cheek nestled into the crook of Cas’ arm, how he’s wrapped himself around his best friend like a goddamn baby koala.</p><p>“Shit,” he pushes himself up to sit so quickly his head spins. “Sorry, man.”</p><p>“It’s alright, Dean. You can’t control what your body does while you’re asleep.”</p><p>“Y-yeah, guess s’true.” Dean feels the flush spread across his cheeks to the tops of his ears, and can’t bring himself to look at Cas yet. “I’m gonna take a shower,” he calls over his shoulder as he bolts toward the bathroom, “can you start some coffee?”</p>
<hr/><p>The next time they go to bed, Dean is careful, tucks all those useless extra pillowsaround himself<em>—</em>part barrier to keep from accidentally wrapping himself around Castiel during the night, part nest to appease that ache deep inside his gut that <em>wants</em> to do so.</p><p>Because goddammit, Dean Winchester does <em>not </em>cuddle.</p><p>Except, that, y’know, apparently he <em>does.</em></p><p>Dammit<em>.</em></p><p>He wakes up the next morning nestled into the crook of Cas’ arm, limbs slung carelessly over his trunk, his calf slotted between the angel’s thighs. Once again, as he gradually driftsinto consciousness, Dean becomes aware of Cas rubbing his upper back, an idle, soothing pressure along his thoracic spine.</p><p>“S’nice,” he murmurs into the worn cotton stretched taut across Cas’ shoulders. It’s a faded old Zeppelin tee, one of his, because a man has limits, dammit, and Dean had insisted that Cas not sleep shirtless. For completely valid, <em>manly</em> reasons, of course.</p><p>So, for the second morning in a row, Dean awakens feeling warm and safe and…well, feeling a helluva lot happier than he needs to be feeling, given the current proximity of a certain bed-headed angel. This is not the time for morning wood.</p><p>
  <em>Shit.</em>
</p><p>That broad, calloused hand is tracing loose figure eights across Dean’s scapulae now, lazy and easy as anything. Like he can’t tell that the touch is electrifying, setting every nerve in Dean’s body alight with…something.</p><p>“Good morning, Dean.” If Cas’ everyday voice sounds like he’s been gargling gravel, his just-woke-up voice is the vocal equivalent of the way that gravel would tear up Dean’s knees after Cas finished fucking his throat, and isn’t <em>that </em>an image worth revisiting at a later date. Y’know, when he’s not stuck in quarantine with the motherfucker he’s fantasizing about.</p><p>“Did you sleep well?” And still with the lazy circles, the easy, gentle caresses, and Dean’s head is spinning from it. It’s just so…surprisingly easy, is what it is. Waking up like this feels too comfortable, too <em>right</em>, and that right there scares the shit out of him. Because even though Castiel, mighty and powerful Angel of the Lord, had told him all those years ago that good things <em>do </em>happen, Dean can’t take that at face value. Can’t let himself believe it because, in his experience, Admiral Akbar’s always been more on the nose. Those good things that happen? Tend to be a goddamn trap.</p><p><em>And yet, </em>that grumpy voice in the back of his head pipes up<em>, you’re still snuggled up to Cas like a needy goddamn child. Just askin’ for trouble.</em></p><p>Oh shove it, asshole.</p><p>“Dean?” The palm on his back stills, then jerks away. “I-um…are you okay?” Oh fuck. Dean realizes belatedly that he may have just cussed out his inner asshole aloud, a little too loud. <em>Sonofabitch.</em></p><p>“‘M sorry, wasn’t talkin’ to you.” Dean’s face is still pressed close to Cas’ chest, so he’s not sure if Cas actually understood him. He tilts his head, rests his chin on Cas’ collarbone, and repeats his apology.</p><p>“Wasn’t telling <em>you </em>to shove it,” Dean mumbles as he clears the sleep from his eyes, “G’mornin’, Cas.” He’s rewarded with a bright, soft smile, the kind that crinkles the corners of those gorgeous blue eyes and makes Dean’s ribcage feel like it’s about half a size too small for all the shit bubbling inside it.</p>
<hr/><p>Okay, so <em>yes, </em>under extenuating circumstances, Dean Winchester does, in fact, cuddle.</p><p>They don’t talk about it. Of <em>course</em> they don’t talk about it. There’s nothing to talk about. It doesn’t have to be a big <em>thing </em>or anything, not something anyone has to share with the class. It’s just…a quarantine thing. When stuck in a tiny motel room with your best friend (so what if you’ve been in love with him for years, shut up), cuddling at night is perfectly acceptable.</p><p>When they go to bed, Dean doesn’t bother to collect the pillows from his barrier/nest from where he’d flung them on the floor during the previous night. No, he just lies down toward the center of the bed and waits in silence for Cas to get settled. Only after Cas has stilled does he turn onto his side, facing his nightstand, and scoots back until Cas’ chest is flush with his back, until he can feel Cas’ knee bumping the back of his. Dean reaches behind him and grabs for the angel’s wrist, tugging him closer until his hand rests on Dean’s chest, right at his heart. Dean drifts off to the tickle of Cas’ breath against his nape.</p><p>That night, Dean sleeps more soundly than he has in…forever, maybe.</p><p>They don’t talk about it.</p>
<hr/><p>“Will you please stop that?” Cas growls, “The incessant thumping makes it hard to hear the program.”</p><p>Dean rolls his eyes, refusing to look at the angel, and then tosses the ball again. “Can’t.” It bounces off the wall, and Dean catches it. “Bored.”</p><p>“You’re worse than a child.” Cas reaches for the remote control and turns the volume up so that the booming voice of Major Winchester echoes through the room.</p><p>
  <em>Just an ordinary day of birth, death, sex and violence. And it's not even noon yet. Ah, spring. After a long winter, it's time to get outside and drink your fill of nectar. If you're a honey bee, this is your field of dreams. Bees get almost all of their food from flowers. Attracted by the bright colors and sweet smells, the bee thrusts its body and long, straw-like proboscis deep inside the flower and sucks up the sugary nectar at the bottom.</em>
</p><p>Dean draws in a sharp breath, sucks the insides of his cheeks between his teeth, and for the zillionth time this week, wills his traitorous dick to settle down. It’s a goddamn documentary about bees, for fuck’s sake. He glances over to where Cas is sitting, leaning forward so thathis elbows rest on his knees, utterly engrossed in his <a href="https://www.pbs.org/wgbh/nova/transcripts/2701bees.html">PBS program.</a> This time, he throws the ball a little too hard and barely gets his hand in front of his face before it hits him in the eye.</p><p>
  <em>Stupid bee with its stupid thrusting proboscis.</em>
</p><p>“Dean,” Cas sighs in frustration. “This is getting ridiculous.” There’s a momentary electric buzz as the television turns off, and then the swish of that stupid trench coat as Cas comes closer. Why the fuck does he have to wear that in here anyway?</p><p>“You’re tellin’ me…I <em>know</em> that. Been stuck here just as long as you.” Dean’s pouting; he <em>knows </em>he sounds like a petulant child, but come the fuck on. It’s been 6 days and 14 hours (not that he’s counting) of nonstop Castiel, and a man’s got limits.</p><p>“I’m sorry that we’re in this situation, but it’s out of our hands. I wish there was something I could do to ease your frustrations.” Cas gingerly sits at the foot of the bed opposite where Dean’s sprawled. He’s wary, looking at Dean like he’s about to explode, and it’s not like he’s completely off base there.</p><p>“Look, dude,” Dean begins, scrubbing his hand over his face, “I know I’ve been a little stir crazy. It ain’t you.” The lie comes quick, because it <em>is</em> Cas that’s making him crazy, but there’s absolutely nothing that the angel can do about it. He throws the ball again.</p><p>“Do you think a sexual release would help?”</p><p>Dean’s face goes slack, what with his brain having lost all control over what it’s doing while it stutters to process what Cas has just said. He looks over at the angel in hungry, mortified disbelief.</p><p>“Ow!” The ball smacks him in the cheek.</p>
<hr/><p>“Look, man…” Dean’s whole face is on fire, even with the icy sting of the coldpack pressing into his cheekbone. Playing How to Be Human, Sexy Edition is about the last thing he wants to be doing halfway through this stupid confinement with the star of nearly a decade’s worth of sexual fantasies. He stares down at the bedspread, tracing a line of scrollwork traveling between large yellow blossoms in the gaudy floral pattern, wishing, for a fleeting moment, that the pattern would swallow him up, trapping him behind the swirls and flowers. Even without looking up, though, Dean knows Cas is watching him, can feel the pressure of Cas’ gaze boring through the top of his head.</p><p>“Ya can’t just <em>say </em>shit like that,” he continues, “I mean, not to—um, well…not to another dude.”</p><p>“Like the pizza man. I understand.”</p><p>Dean hazards a glance to where Castiel is still perched at the foot of the bed, squinting at him like a stupid equation to be solved, and he is <em>not </em>going to blush under the weight of that gaze. How the fuck can Cas make talking about getting off look like he’s taking a solemn vow to…fuck it, something people take solemn vows to do.</p><p>“Yeah, exactly.” Dean clears his throat, realizing only after he catches the twitch at the corner of the angel’s mouth that he’s been staring. Back to the yellow flowers.</p><p>
  <em>Wonder how many flowers are on this bedspread, anyway. I should find that out.</em>
</p><p>Dean is counting ugly flowers when Cas leaves the room.</p>
<hr/><p>He’s still counting them when Cas returns a few minutes later with a couple of books from Baby in one hand and a couple of bags from the local grocery store in the other. Neither man speaks as Cas takes the supplies from the grocery delivery into the kitchenette and begins to put them away.</p><p>Cas does that, you see, when they’re on a hunt. He unpacks, puts things in their proper places. Trench coat and suit jack hung in meager closets, socks and underwear in the dresser drawer.</p><p>He does it in the bunker, too. It’s become an unspoken routine between the two of them. Even when it’s Sam’s turn for the supply run, Cas always makes sure things go into their proper (read: where <em>Dean </em>wants them, not that chaotic shit Sam does) places.</p><p>Dean realizes that he’s staring again.</p><p>“So, uh,” Dean licks his lips like some pervy old man as he watches Cas bend to put something into the small refrigerator, “did you have something in particular in mind?” He can feel his heart thudding in his chest and is sure Cas can hear it from across the room.</p><p>“I was thinking popcorn.” Cas is still rooting through the bags as he responds, and maybe that answer breaks Dean’s brain just a little because what does popcorn have to do with orgasms, anyway?</p><p>“Ha!” Cas holds up a small package, smiling triumphantly at Dean. “I requested the Ultimate Butter flavor on the delivery form. I know it’s not the same as the kind you make at the bunker, but I hope it’s an acceptable microwave-friendly alternative.”</p><p>“Y-you got me popcorn?” And dammit, Dean Winchester is not a fucking prepubescent girl. He’s not gonna get all gooey over Orville Redenbacher, for fuck’s sake. He is <em>not.</em></p><p>Only—<em>shit goddamn motherfucking sonofabitch</em>—apparently he is.</p><p>“Dean?” Cas is kneeling in front of him; Dean didn’t even notice him cross the room, <em>fuck</em>. He glues his eyes to the scrollwork on the bedspread and wills the tears welling up to just go the fuck away. This isn’t happening. This isn’t fucking <em>happening.</em></p><p>“<em>Dean</em>.”</p><p>Cas is more urgent now, his name more a demand on his lips than the question it was before, and he’s touching Dean. <em>Fuck. </em>Heat radiates from where Cas’ palm rests on his knee; his jaw tingles with electric sparks where Cas has tucked a fingertip to lift his chin.</p><p>When Dean finally looks up, looks at those ocean blue eyes through the glassy blur of unshed tears, something deep inside him finally clicks. Or maybe it’s more like a break. The kind the doctors do when the bone hasn’t set right. That destruction necessary to build something stronger than before. Whatever it is, all Dean knows is that in this moment, looking into his angel’s eyes, he finally believes what Cas said that night. Good things <em>do </em>happen, and for the first time in his whole Chuck-forsaken life, Dean is ready to let himself trust it. He blinks once, and lets the tears fall.</p><p>“Cas,” he utters his name like a prayer as he surges forward, interlacing his fingers behind Castiel’s neck, and pulls him in close for a kiss. <em>I’m gonna kiss Cas. I’m about to </em>kiss <em>Castiel. I’m kissing Cas. Those are Castiel’s lips on mine. Castiel is kissing</em> me. Castiel leans into it, traces the tip of his tongue along the top of Dean’s bottom lip, waiting—patiently waiting, like he’s <em>been</em> waiting for so damn long; Dean still can’t believe anyone would go through so much grief for a fuckup like <em>him</em>—for Dean’s lips to part, for Dean to let him in.</p><p>And <em>goddamn</em> does he ever.</p><p>In a flash, the gentle press of lips transforms, the energy sizzling between them turned wild and almost violent from all those years of holding back, of pretending they weren’t burning themselves alive with so many repeated denials. Dean finds himself lying back on that hideous comforter, Castiel’s lithe body a welcome weight above him as the angel’s tongue explores the topography of his mouth. When the need for air finally overwhelms them, Cas lifts himself up to rest on one forearm, looking down at Dean with soft eyes and the tiniest crook of a smile. He looks at Dean like he hung the moon and the stars, and suddenly all that dust they must have kicked up in the room makes Dean’s eyes leak all the more. It’s too much. Dean is a raw goddamn nerve and everything is <em>too much, </em>and he knows he’s only seconds away from imploding under the weight of Castiel’s gaze.</p><p>But right when Dean’s on that precipice, about to tumble over into feelings he can’t handle, not quite yet, at least, Cas cards nimble fingers through Dean’s hair, tugging just this side of too rough. That pinprick sting of each and every follicle in Cas’ grasp, the surrender of his muscles as he lets go and lets Cas move his head where and how he wants it…it all pulls a guttural moan from somewhere deep in Dean’s throat, and suddenly, Dean’s safe again, surrounded and protected by his angel. No longer on the verge of falling, of collapsing under the immensity of Castiel’s devotion. No, he’s ready to soar on its wings.</p><p>“Need you, angel,” Dean snakes his arms around Castiel’s waist, inside that battered old coat, and grabs himself two handfuls of angelic ass, squeezing and kneading as he pulls Cas down to meet his own eager thrusts. And fuck, <em>fuck</em>, the sound that rips from Cas’ throat at the first brush of their dicks? Dean wants to live in that sound, wants to spend the rest of his days punching that desperate, throaty moan from his angel’s chest. His own breath is ragged as he nuzzles against the juncture of Cas’ neck and shoulder, licking and sucking his way up toward Cas’ jaw. Cas tastes like salt and heat and something else, tastes like the way petrichor smells after a thunderstorm in June, and Dean knows he’s not making sense right now, but who could blame him when he’s finally <em>finally </em>got the taste of Cas’ skin on his tongue, the hot press of his burgeoning erection a heavy tease against Dean’s own?</p><p>“You have me, Dean,” Cas murmurs against his ear, nosing softly against the hair above it, “you’ve always had me.” He presses that fundamental truth into Dean’s skin, a slow drag of lips and tongue from Dean’s earlobe along his jaw, until he captures Dean’s mouth in an almost languid kiss, slow and teasing, yet tinged with the promise of more.</p><p>Heat pools in the pit of Dean’s belly, and he feels like a goddamn teenager, ready to blow just from making out. But who the fuck cares, anyway? What’s wrong with a little coming in his pants in the face of…of <em>this? </em>Of sensory overload, of being completely and totally <em>overwhelmed </em>by the infinite celestial being currently pressing him into the cheap hotel mattress? The scent, the taste of Cas on his tongue, the feel of their bodies lined up, the friction of their clothed cocks rocking together. It’s more than he ever let himself hope for, better than he’d ever imagined.</p><p>“Dean, can we—“ Cas pants out brokenly between kisses, his voice suddenly shy, “can we take off our clothes?” And fuck if shy and horny Cas ain’t just <em>adorable</em>?</p><p>“Hell yeah, Cas, let’s do that.” Dean feels the warmth of that gummy smile that earns him all the way down in his toes, and he knows his own answering smile is just as bright and unguarded. But…Cas just asked if they could get naked, and that’s the best idea in the history of ideas, and Dean needs to get out of his clothes, like <em>yesterday.</em></p><p>It’s awkward and clumsy, the rush to divest themselves of the cloth barriers standing in the way of what they want, but eventually they figure it all out. They tumble back onto the bed in nothing but their underwear (ridiculous white boxers for Cas, sexier not-panties-but-close blue briefs for Dean), giggling as they come back together and feel the press of bare skin on skin for the first time.</p><p>This time Dean finds himself on top, Cas’ thick erection insistent at the cleft of his ass. He grinds down onto it, wiggling his ass in tiny circles and relishing the feel of Cas hard and heavy between his cheeks. But he’s too keyed up for any sort of butt stuff right now, and judging from the uneven fall of Cas’ chest, the wild, unfocused look in his eyes? So is Cas.</p><p><em>Next time, </em>he tells himself, thrilled at the utter certainty that there will be a next time. They can do that later, when they’ve got lube and patience. For now? Now, all Dean wants to do is tear his angel apart, to make him come undone beneath him. He wants to see the flush on his face when Cas comes, hear his cries. He wants, <em>wants </em>with a desperation that overwhelms him.</p><p>“Dean.” Cas growls his name, staring up at him hungrily, only a thin ring of blue is visible in those lust-blown eyes. “Please, Dean.” And then Cas is pulling him down, kissing him again, tongue forcing its way into his mouth. There’s nothing gentle about this kiss; it’s pure need, tongues dancing together, lips and teeth crashing as both men succumb to years of pent-up sexual tension.“Please,” Cas whimpers, honest to god <em>whimpers,</em> grinding himself harder against Dean, “please…more.”</p><p><em>Sonofabitch. </em>Hearing Cas beg does something to Dean, sends whatever’s left of his rational brain completely offline. <em>You’ve reached Dean’s other other brain, you want rational, try again after the orgasm. </em>He pushes his hard length down against Cas, hisses when Cas digs blunt nails into his lower back. “Yeah, like that, angel,” he groans, “more.”</p><p>“Fuck,” Cas cries out, wraps his arms and legs around Dean, drawing him in impossibly closer with every limb. His heels push into Dean’s ass, his fingernails tearing up welts as they scratch paths down the length of Dean’s back. And holy motherfucking god, hearing that word coming from his angel’s mouth? Dean didn’t realize it was possible for his dick to get harder until this very moment.</p><p>“Need—” Cas grunts, digs his nails into the meat of Dean’s ass, “Dean...I need—”</p><p>“Gonna give you what you need, angel,” Dean purrs, sliding a hand between them and cupping Cas through the thin fabric of his boxers. “Let’s get these...” Another few moments of awkward movement, hips lifting and shimmying, and then their bodies meet again, this time completely bare.</p><p>“Oh <em>fu—</em>oh <em>Dean</em>.” The way Cas looks at him when their cocks slide together for the first time? It’s epic poetry; it’s the Sistine Chapel; it’s “Achilles’ Last Stand;” it’s…there aren’t words for it; it’s better than perfection. And Dean’s a goner for it, for making Castiel, Angel of the Fucking <em>Lord</em> look up at him like that. Cas throws his head back against the pillow as they rut together, babbling an Enochian litany peppered with <em>Dean </em>and <em>please </em>and it feels so good. Years of doubt and denial and self-loathing dissolve into their hot bodies writhing against each other, hips rocking and grinding and rolling as they each move closer to climax.</p><p>“Want you to come for me, Cas.” Dean licks a hot line up the angel’s neck, and sucks a bruise into the spot just beneath his earlobe. “Wanna make you feel good.” Cas just whines in response, holding even tighter as his moves in an artless, furious rhythm.</p><p>“Dean,” he gasps, surprised by his orgasm, “Dean, I think I’m—“ and he’s coming, spurting hot and thick between their stomachs. And <em>holy shit</em> Cas is beautiful when he comes, as the shock in his eyes melts into the pleasure of release, the way his whole face tenses and then softens into a gooey, pliant grin. That right there is all it takes to send Dean careening over the edge, too, coming with Cas’ name on his lips, adding his own contribution to the sticky mess between them.</p><p>Dean presses his sweat-slick forehead to Cas’ as they come down, panting in tandem, both overwhelmed by what they’ve just done. Eventually, he rolls off onto his side and rests his head on the pillow next to Cas, watches as Cas stares up at the ceiling.</p><p>Moment of truth time. Dean feels the implications of his next move like a weight on his chest, knows it’s on him how things will play out. He’s terrified.</p><p>
  <em>Good things do happen, Dean.</em>
</p><p>Dean leans forward and ghosts his lips against that beautiful stubbled jaw. “Hiya, Cas.”</p><p>“Hello, Dean.”</p><p>“Did ya enjoy that?” Dean noses along Cas’ cheekbone, snuggles up close the way his body’s been doing in his sleep the past few nights.</p><p>“It was…I found it quite pleasurable,” Cas answers, his lips quirking up into a tiny, uncertain smile. “I would be open to doing that again, if the opportunity presented itself.”</p><p>Dean chuckles, rolling onto his stomach so he can look at Cas. “Y’know how I’m not the best at all this emotional crap?” The angel lifts an eyebrow, and damn if that does say more than a thousand words. “Well, I…uh, I feel…things for you.” That uncertain smile gets wider. “And, well, I’d like to—um, what I mean is…”</p><p>“I love you, too, Dean.” Cas traces a fingertip along Dean’s jaw, rests the pad against Dean’s lower lip. Dean smiles so wide his cheeks ache.</p><p>“So, we’re doin’ this? You an’ me, for real?”</p><p>“Yes, Dean.” Cas leans up as he speaks, and Dean smiles into the kiss.</p><p>“Quarantine just got a lot more interesting.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks, as always, to NeelyO, unkind ravens, and ahurston for the hair pets and near-constant validation. Y'all are the best.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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